


Svipul

by Zenolalia



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Buckle up kids we're going some weird places, F/F, I saw it in a dream tbh, Parallel Universes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-07 05:25:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12226644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zenolalia/pseuds/Zenolalia
Summary: In which Mercy's redesign is less a matter of the progression of technology, and more a matter of divergent priorities in two (not quite so) very different realities.





	Svipul

Low tide wouldn’t last forever.

With a sharp gesture, the coils of her plasma pistol slid into motion. Angela knew, rationally, that the sound of her clip charging to full couldn’t possibly be audible more than four feet away. And there wasn't even anyone on any of the overlooking balconies to hear it. Even if someone could, the lapping of the water surrounding their stronghold would make the soft whine unidentifiable.

Still, her nerves were more taut than the coils of her gun.

She wasn’t supposed to be here. But with Morrison laid out, she was in command. No one was going to stop her.

She was also the least competent for an extraction, save perhaps Dos Santos.

She could have trusted young Lúcio to do anything and everything within his power to get their girl out safely. He was Lena’s brother, depending on one’s definition of blood. But he was also the only active agent whose arsenal was even worse suited to rapid, silent removal than her own.

She could move quietly and keep her sight level, if she needed to. Lucio had no such luxury.

And if silence came at the cost of not being able to vent exhaust through her wing ports, so be it. She hadn’t always been able to fly.

She glanced behind her, looking for the glint of her cover agent. But, the former heir of Shimada was too good to be sighted by a combat medic with pretensions, especially not from the high tide line.

Hopefully he was good enough to keep the exit path clear.

It would have been easier to put her faith in his blend of archaics and arcana if he’d actually consented to let her examine him, but after the mess she’d made of his brother, she supposed she couldn’t blame him, either.

Still, trusting a privateer who used wood and what everyone insisted was magic with their lives made her neck tingle with the phantom of a bullet or a bolt severing her armored spine.

She unclenched her jaw. This was a waste of time. There wasn’t going to be a better opportunity.

Her soft-soled boots felt unfamiliar on her feet, pulling oddly at her midfoot each time the wet sand tried to suction her back down. Her staff felt awkward, dangerously visible on her back, no doubt glowing like a beacon in the dim moonlight even disabled as it was. She was certain this was where, as that screechowl liked to say, death would come for her.

All the same, the sight of her pistol stayed high, right hand on the grip, left steadying it from below, finger hovering barely outside the trigger guard. Morrison would be proud- if he wouldn’t have shot out her knee just to make a point about hubris.

Fool’s errand.

A whistle, like unnatural wind, sounded from behind her, following a single blue spark diving through the night. On one side of the castle, a burst of blue light shot through the implants in her left eye, and for a few seconds, she could see everything she needed to: Lena’s slender limbs and the heavy frame of her accelerator, at least a floor down- below the water level?- and two other silhouettes, both with slender shoulders, pinched waists, and one with an all too recognizable waterfall of hair spilling from the crown of her head.

Damn.

At least both were drawn to where the sonic arrow had shattered against the north wall. No one to notice her approach from the east just yet.

She picked up the pace. Sand shifted into flagstones, the soft crunch of each step replaced by a muted slap. At least the boots were doing their job- she lost nearly no traction, even sprinting with wet soles on hard rock.

The floor plans of the chateau had been a matter of public record- a site of historical interest. And altering this much sandstone this low on the water would have required at least a few contracted engineers, and liberty from the local government.

It was a gamble that Talon wouldn’t have found it worth the effort to upgrade, but one that paid off, with the wine cellar exactly where the blueprints had said it would be. Two bursts from her pistol, and the lock was a molten mess that pulled apart easily.

And in the back, the stairs to the root cellar.

The trap door was open, and a ghastly, flickering blue glow came up from the pit. Lena.

A running leap, and then Angela was dropping her gently into the cellar on spread wings, pistol holstered and staff humming with golden biotics.

Lena was unconscious, a state that Angela immediately distrusted, but this was the point of having a swift response suit.

The gold enveloped Tracer’s body, just as a very different shade of light danced into the edges of Angela’s vision.

“Hola,” said the woman, purple hologlyphs dancing along her nails as she waved.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I realize that Guillard is on the Lac d'Annecy, but listen. Mont St-Michel is cooler. Fight me.  
> Side note: I also realize that being Swiss, Angela would obviously think of the chateau in its French spelling not its English one, but my keyboard is a little shit so the circonflexe can eat a rotten egg.


End file.
